And his smile—have I mentioned he had the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen in a man in my life?—deepened slightly and he said, “I’d tell you, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to pronounce it.”
I frowned.
This wasn’t going very well.
In fact, it was becoming clearer by the second that Savannah’s instincts were right.
This guy was … strange.
In fact, he might be a flat-out weirdo.
A very good-looking weirdo—but still. A weirdo.
So I started thinking about how much ground was between me and my car, and if I acted calm and kept talking like nothing was wrong, I could bolt and if I got enough of a head start maybe I could reach my car before he caught me—
“Try me,” I said, watching him.
And he paused. And I noticed again that gentle, calm intelligence in his eyes—it was so disarming. It was like, it contradicted all those fearful thoughts that kept flooding my brain.
He wasn’t scary.
He was not scary.
He was … what?
My home.
This man is my home.
And then as if he’d made a decision, he nodded, and then he opened his mouth and a sound came out.
It was unlike any sound I’d ever heard before.
No! That’s not quite right. The sound was actually very, very familiar. But it wasn’t a word. It sounded like wind. It sounded like wind rustling the leaves of a tree—or maybe it was water, the sound water makes when it tumbles over rocks in a stream.
I stared. My mouth probably hanging open.
And I started to wonder if maybe I wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming or something.
Because not only was the word he’d spoken unpronounceable—it wasn’t a sound that a human being could make, using human anatomy—the human voice box.
He could read the confusion in my eyes, I suppose. “I told you, you might have trouble pronouncing it,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say. So of course I came up with something completely stupid. “So, uh, you’re not an American?”
Oh, brother.
“No,” he said. “I’m not. But I do visit pretty often.”
And—isn’t this ridiculous? I felt my heart drop at those words. Because all I could think was: he’s not from here. He’s only visiting … he’s going to leave.
And I don’t want him to leave.
“You could call me by my nickname,” he said.
Why was my mouth suddenly so dry? Why did it feel like he was granting me something amazing, telling me his nickname?
“Okay,” I whispered. “What’s your nickname?”
“I have several.” And suddenly his face was so serious. And the odd feelings inside me intensified. Like this was a test of some kind.
“One of them is Bear.” He nodded. “Some people call me ‘Bear.’”
Our eyes met.
And I thought about it. The name didn’t make sense—he didn’t strike me as bear-like. On the contrary, he was—not slender, exactly, but not heavy-set by a long shot.
“Also Creator of Magical Songs. And Yule Father. And Wanderer.”
Ugh. That last one, Wanderer, reminded me of what he’d said earlier—about not being an American but only visiting.
“And another one people sometimes use,” he said, his gorgeous blue eyes suddenly locking onto mine, “is Santa.”
I stared.
And then—it was too much.
I couldn’t help it.
Suddenly, I could not believe I was having this conversation.
I burst out laughing.
“Santa,” I said. And then I realized I was laughing and I worried that he might think my laughter was insulting. But I saw he was smiling.
“Silly, isn’t it?”
I stopped laughing.
“Look,” I said. “I am not really sure—I don’t know even why I came here today—but this—this is all—”
“You’re cold,” he said. “You’re shivering.”
And he was right. My jeans had gotten a little wet from the snow, walking in from the car. And I had no hat or gloves. And now standing like that I was starting to get chilly.
And I also noticed how—beyond the pool of light cast from the tree—how dark it was getting.
“Would you like to go inside, where it’s warm?”
His voice was so low as he spoke.
A little shiver went through me.
A shiver of “yes.”
And then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before—something behind him.
There was a door in the trunk of the tree.
And of course it was crazy—crazy. But there it was: a door. The top of it came to maybe my chest. It was bark-covered like the rest of the tree, but I could see the crack between it and the trunk—it was definitely a door—and then I also saw what looked like a wrought iron door handle.
And I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to say yes and go with this man into the tree.
But in the same instant I was gripped by a wave of fear.
Madness.
Madness.
Out here in this deserted place with a VERY odd man who is a complete stranger and he wants me to do WHAT?
“Clare,” he said.
Somehow my eyes found his again.
“You don’t have to be frightened, Clare. I would never, ever hurt you.”
“This—this is crazy.” My voice sounded shaky at first but then it steadied and I thought I might even start to scream. “This is—”
“Clare.”
His voice stopped my words in my throat, as if he’d caught them in his hand, clasped my words in his hand.
“Clare, you know this, but you haven’t yet allowed it to sink in: I’m not a mortal man.”
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying to me.
“But I have fallen in love with you.”
“I don’t understand.”
He shook his head, like he was regretting something, only his eyes didn’t look regretful. “It’s been known to happen.”
I couldn’t stop staring. “I—I don’t understand.”
“You have to trust me, Clare, when I tell you I’m offering you your destiny.”
It made no sense.
Absolutely. No. Sense.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “This is … nuts.”
“I’ve been … around you for a long time. But you never saw me.”
So he’s … a stalker?
This is bad—this is really, really bad.
“Unless you believe, you cannot see.” His words broke again into my thoughts and I again became aware of his eyes—their gentleness, that deep tenderness.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“Just remember these words, please, Clare, my love: if you doubt, your doubt becomes the test.”
It made no sense.
“Will you remember those words?”
I nodded, and then we stood there, looking at each other.
And it felt like my heart might tear in two.
Half of my heart was gripped by fear.
And the other half, by something else. Something like desire. Only more than desire. Something older than my bones, older than life itself.
“You’re cold. You have to go.”
I didn’t want to go.
“But first—before you go—I’d like to kiss you. May I kiss you?”
And the fearful part of my heart screamed NO. The fearful part of my heart believed that if I let this man touch me, kiss me, I would be gone. I would be gone. I would never want to leave him. I would follow him—through that door, through that door that could not possibly exist, into whatever impossibility lay behind that impossible door.
And he stepped toward me.
And he reached out and touched my cheek with the tips of his fingers.
And a stab of pleasure and desire plu
nged through my body.
And his hand was behind my head and he was pulling me into him, and our lips touched, and he kissed me.
And my knees nearly buckled under me and I wanted to grab him and hang onto him and beg me to take me with him.
And then he’d released me and I stood there, barely able to support myself on my wobbly legs, my heart racing, my brain swirling.
Looking at him.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“I told you. I’m Santa.”
I must have looked like an idiot. I couldn’t comprehend the words.
“I was there, that day on the street, because the man with the cell phone needed my help. But you helped him, instead. You see, I am the one who comes when things are dark.”
Santa.
This was too much. “I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Santa? Santa brings presents to little kids.”
He smiled. “That’s a child’s tale. But there’s truth in it. A deeper truth.” He paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words, and then continued. “When the days are darkest—the soul’s midwinter days—I’m the one who brings the miracle. The thing that helps people go on. I give the gift that helps people get through the darkest days.”
It was ridiculous—to be standing there hearing those words.
And yet … something about what he said made perfect sense …
“You have to go,” he said.
“But—” I looked at him. “I don’t—can I come back? How will I find you?”
And his smile faded and I saw in those beautiful eyes a touch of sadness. “When you’re ready—”
And I thought: I failed. I’ve failed.
“You won’t fail, Clare. Not as long as you believe.”
I realized that my shivering was getting worse.
And I no longer had feeling in my toes.
“Go,” he said.
And I don’t know how I did it. I was so torn, I don’t know how I did it. Maybe because, as confused as I was, the only thing that made sense was to go back to my car and try to get warm. Like my body’s need to get warm took over for me.
I started back through the snow.
And I felt the tears running down my cheeks.
And I knew that I would turn around and he would be gone.
But I couldn’t help myself.
And so I turned.
And he was gone.
The lights on the tree had gone out—it was dark—but I could still tell. He was gone.
“Bear,” I whispered. “Santa.”
But it was too late.
And a fresh new fear plunged through my heart: I will never see him again.
I don’t remember the rest of the walk back to the car. All I know is that once I got there I sat for a long time. And I had the heater on full blast, but it felt like I’d never feel warm again.
And I sat there, waiting until the sobbing passed so that I could see the road to drive.
SAVANNAH
Of course I didn’t believe a word of it.
Would you?
Be honest.
A. Your best friend and roommate, who should have gotten home from work before you, is late.
B. You start to feel a bit concerned.
C. You text her, but she’s not answering her texts. And it’s gotten dark and now you’re starting to get seriously worried.
D. You call her work number and they say she left at the end of her shift, over two hours ago.
And then, right as you’re starting to think it’s time to call her family and maybe the police, she shows up.
She is a MESS. Her face is all red, her eyes are all red. She’s been crying.
You ask her what’s wrong. She doesn’t answer. She just looks at you with these eyes that are stricken. Like she’s been through hell.
You ask her again and she says she can’t explain it, she can’t talk about it. Of course that answer doesn’t fly, so you tell her Clare you have GOT to tell me what’s going on—you’re getting frantic at this point—and she finally comes out with it.
It’s some absolutely bizarre story about going into the woods and a tree with a door in it and a guy inviting her in and she wanted to go but she was afraid and—
Wha?????
You realize this is the same guy she claimed to see the day she got hit by a bus—who by the way isn’t in any of the photos taken by other people who were there on the scene.
I’m thinking, O.M.G. Clare’s off her rocker. She’s completely off her rocker. I’m thinking, okay, she’s got insurance. Insurance will cover this. She will probably need to see her primary care physician, first. Then she can get a referral for a counselor or perhaps a psychiatrist.
But of course we couldn’t take those steps that very minute.
I helped her out of her coat and wrapped her in a blanket and made her a cup of tea. She was shivering. She was freezing cold. Her hands were like ice.
I handed her the cup and told her not to think about it—because obviously whatever is going on in that poor head of hers, it’s way too upsetting. I had to distract her. I turned on the TV and put my arm around her. She snuggled up to me and finally, after about a half hour, she stopped shivering.
And then I realized she was asleep.
But even later, even when I woke her up and helped her into bed, there’s no way I could sleep.
Because I was thinking, she’s snapped. My sweet Clare, my best friend Clare, she’s lost her mind.
I’ve lost my best friend, Clare.
CLARE: December 10, con’t
Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.
And I don’t mean the obvious. Meeting a man who says he’s not mortal, who says he’s Santa for crying out loud—who appears to live in a tree in the woods and claims to love me and when he kissed me it was pretty much over, how could I ever kiss another man after feeling a kiss like that?
That was all bad enough.
What was worse was the turmoil.
The mental turmoil, and the turmoil in my heart.
I couldn’t make sense of it.
And of course, Savannah was freaked out.
I completely understand. In fact, if I’d been able to hide it from her, I would have. I would have kept it all secret to keep her from freaking her out.
But I was so cold and so confused—I had to go home and I must have looked half wild.
So I couldn’t hide from her that something terrible had happened, that I’d been thrown for the loop of a lifetime.
But her reaction only made it worse. Because it scared her. It scared her. She didn’t have to tell me—and she didn’t, she didn’t say any of it out loud. But I could tell. She thought I was losing my mind. She thought the entire thing was a hallucination. She thought that when I’d been hit by the bus it did something to my brain and I was now a nut case.
And you know, fear is contagious. If I’d been able to process the whole experience calmly and privately maybe I’d have handled it a little better. But instead I was kind of splitting myself into two. Part of me was trying to figure out what had really happened that afternoon in the oak grove, and the other part was trying to deal with poor Savannah.
Starting with the next day, when I’m getting ready for work and she knocks on the bathroom door and says she’s fixed scrambled eggs, and then when I sit down at the kitchen she sits down across me and says, “Clare, about last night.”
And I’m immediately all tense again waiting for something new to hit me, you know?
And she says, “I think maybe you should see somebody. A doctor.”
So then of course I tell her no no NO. Because I can’t imagine it. I cannot imagine sitting down with a shrink and telling him that Santa kissed me, and it was the most amazing kiss, and that now I’m kicking myself because I could have gone away with him but I didn’t because I’m the biggest coward to ever walk the face of the Earth.
A shrink, hearing that, would lock me up. A door in a tree t
runk. Right. He’d lock me up in the loony bin.
And she tries to argue with me but I won’t budge, and she tells me it’s just that she’s worried about me and so of course I tell her I am FINE. I’m fine. “I know it sounds like the most bizarre thing ever,” I told her, “but it has to make sense somehow. I promise I’ll deal with it somehow.”
And I can see by how she looks at me that my words aren’t reassuring her at all.
“You look awful, you know,” she said.
I don’t tell her that I woke up at like three in the morning and all I could think about was that kiss and what a coward I was and I never got back to sleep.
“I’m fine,” I told her.
So then I see she wants to say something else, and sure enough she strikes a bargain. Okay, so I don’t need to see a “doctor” a.k.a. shrink. But I have to promise, no more going off into the woods by myself like that.
“It’s not exactly ‘the woods,’” I said. “It’s right next to the golf course. You can see Lakeshore Boulevard from his tree.”
But of course that doesn’t make her feel any better.
She insists that I promise to her: under no circumstances do I go back there.
“What if you go with me?” I said.
And a funny look crossed her face. Fear.
Fear.
And I thought: she says she doesn’t believe me, but maybe she does. A little.
“I don’t see any reason to go anywhere near the place,” she said.
“Well, it’s a beautiful spot.” I was feeling a bit angry, now. As you would, if you were in my place. Being told, more or less, that you were crazy in the head. “And you know, the way you’re reacting? I wish I hadn’t told you about any of it. About seeing Santa—about seeing him that first time even. Let alone that I saw him again yesterday. I mean, this is confusing to me, you know? It’s upsetting. And you’re my friend—and I wish I’d kept it all a secret away from you.”
“Clare,” she said, and I looked at her and I could see she felt so sorry, and her tone of voice made me instantly sorry that I’d gotten angry at her.
She loves me.
She’s only trying to protect me.
“I didn’t mean to—I’m just worried about you, is all.”
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